


Tell Me Some Things Last

by arlathahn



Series: A Tale of Twos [2]
Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Family Dynamics, Featuring the Jughead Jones backstory no one asked for with a side of curly fries, Gen, Jughead Jones Needs a Hug, both Jughead and the author are grateful that Betty Cooper exists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 01:10:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn
Summary: Jughead Jones is a unique paradigm of two very distinct things:He is someone special, and yet he is not special at all.





	Tell Me Some Things Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redpeanut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpeanut/gifts).



> Before any of you flay me alive, the Ethel comment in this fic is simply a nod to the comics (in which Ethel is "obsessed" with Jughead), as well as a way to allude to Jughead being asexual or demisexual. I'm really clever, I know.
> 
> This one goes out to Maggie, who sought me out online and sent me pretty messages to cheer me on. I hope you like it, darling, 'cause this one's for you. 
> 
> Title is from _Heal_ by Tom Odell.

>    _“Jughead finds a kind of comfort in Betty, and Betty finds a comfort in Jughead that allows them to step outside of the shit in their private lives for a moment. Jughead really cherishes few people and when he does, he goes full throttle with it, and Betty is the same. They’re both looking for comfort… and they find it.” -_ **Cole Sprouse**

 

* * *

When Jughead is eleven years old, a school nurse grasps him by the elbow and tells him in an earnest, quiet voice, “You're going to be someone someday.”

It's a random Tuesday morning in March, and he doesn't even know her name but her eyes are shining in a way that's peculiar. Peculiar because this Tuesday is like any other Tuesday before it except that he grew half an inch since last semester and he got to pet a salamander at show and tell. Peculiar because Jughead himself has not done anything of note, either. He's done absolutely nothing extraordinary, nothing that would garner attention or fame, nothing exemplary to showcase or write home about. Nothing is different except her voice is hard in the way adults get sometimes, a way that means Jughead should take notice and  _pay attention_ but he doesn’t know to what or to whom.

But he’s young. He’s impressionable, he hasn’t  _lived_  yet. So he believes a seemingly random school nurse who gives him a seemingly random compliment. For a moment in time before adolescence kicks in, before reality hits him square in the jaw like a sucker punch to the face, Jughead Jones believes anything is possible.   
  
“Okay,” his eleven year old self says back, confident and self-assured.

The nurse doesn’t say anything else after that, and Jughead can’t remember if he ever saw her face again. Somewhere his young mind wrote the occasion off as an isolated incident, a fluke oddity to take note of but not worry about and that was that.

He doesn’t think anything of it when the principal takes Jughead in his office and tells him that his father won’t be around to pick him up after school. He doesn’t think anything of it when his mom picks him up instead, her eyes red-ringed and swollen. He doesn’t think when she takes his hand, looks at him that same peculiar way and says, “I’m going away for a while.”

He doesn’t think about it at all when her hands drop, her whole body racking with carefully restrained emotion and says, “Juggie, baby, you can  _come with me_.”

That’s the funny thing about memory. Sometimes your mind can forget something until the day your life irrevocably changes and you’re hit with that one memory, the tipping point of what could have been, and everything just.

Everything just falls apart.

 

* * *

 

Most people, when they look back, have fond memories. No matter how shitty things got in between, the overall picture of adolescence is a good one, painted with warmth and color, not to mention the all-powerful nostalgia that comes with age. It’s a unique quirk of psychology, the rose-tinted glasses that make everything seem just a little bit brighter when reflecting on the past.

Jughead Jones doesn't have that experience.

It’s not meant to be melodramatic. Jughead has a home, if he wants it. He has a father, if he so chooses. But he doesn’t want it, not like this, and he doesn't choose because it's not right. It’s never going to be like it was before, but it was never all that great to start, so maybe his adolescent story was always going to be a tragedy. Maybe it’s out of his hands, maybe his fate is little more than a blender of hurt meant to shape him into someone harder, someone firmer. Someone like his father, but also not like his father at all. Maybe his sophomore autobiographical term paper was always going to be on the philosophical side, maybe he’ll always shy away from telling the whole truth because he doesn’t know how to really  _talk_  about what’s happened in a way that people will understand.

Five years later Jughead will realize that indecision is still a choice, and the nonappearance of change is still just that.

 

* * *

 

** Then **

 

 

It falls apart in pieces, at first.

“I'm hungry,” Jellybean says from his waist, tugging on his sleeve. Mom's out again, picking up as many shifts as she can get at Pop's, and dad’s disappeared as per usual these days. Jughead wants to help, but he's too young to do much of anything of value, so it’s days like this, when his sister looks at him with concern in her eyes and hope on her sleeve that it's hard—the hardest thing he’s ever done to look into those brown eyes and say  _no_.

Jughead thinks that's the worst of it. He thinks it'll only be this way until he's fourteen and can work at the local grocery store, doing whatever he has to. He repeats “it's temporary” over and over in his mind like a mantra, as though multiple repetitions will make it so. While his classmates worry about winter formals and prom kings, Jughead makes lists of which types of cereal they can afford this week, and whether he can sneak in some of those cherry flavored fruit snacks Jellybean loves.

The thing about change though, it doesn't always happen all at once. Sometimes it's a slow motion montage, a car crash that you see but can't stop. Sometimes a part of you knows it’s coming, but knowing the explosion is inevitable doesn’t mean you know the fine details of where and when. None of Jughead’s foresight really matters in the long run, because in the end none of his natural acuity changes much of anything, and that’s the worst part.

It’s not like the movies, where he comes home one day and Mom is gone, Jellybean nowhere in sight. It would be easier, Jughead thinks, to have a clean slate. Or maybe it’s hard no matter what slideshow happens to be playing that day. Maybe reality is always much messier and much uglier than anything that plays on the silver screen.

He comes home to fighting, that’s about as cliché as it gets.

The thing about FP Jones, though, he doesn’t fight with a raised voice. It  _gets_  raised, sure, but he doesn’t shout obscenities or throw objects. None of the tropes one might expect when there’s a fist in one hand and whiskey in the other.

When his dad’s angry, really  _properly_ angry, he hardly says a word.

“I cannot  _believe_  you would jeopardize our family like this,” his mom is saying, finger thrust in the air like a weapon. “If you could get your head out of your ass for two minutes—”

“What is it you think I’ve been doing, sweetheart? ” FP interrupts, calm as you please, tilting his head like the dog at his heel, those dark eyes shining at the threat dangled in front of him.

“This isn’t going to solve anything and you  _know_  it, Forsythe Jones. You know this isn’t how you provide for your family, you  _know_  this isn’t going to solve anything.” His mother paces the room, picking up random scraps of litter strewn about the floor. “This just makes more problems for us, your  _family_ —”

That’s when Jellybean starts crying.

“Hey,” Jughead abandons his post at the doorway and scoops his sister up, cocoons her in his arms tight. “Come here.”

Their mom spins around, pieces of dark hair coming untucked from her bun and flying about her face in a mismatched halo. “Oh, Jelly…”

“I got it,” Jughead says, not looking away from Jellybean’s face.

“Juggie,” his mom tries, arm outstretched in offering, but Jughead won’t have it.

“I said  _I got it_.” Jughead looks at his mother once and exactly once, his gaze fierce before he turns his back, not giving her the chance to respond.

It’s not a nice thing to do, he knows it’s not, but neither is fighting in front of a nine year old girl, a girl who doesn’t understand the problem, let alone how to fix it. Jughead whisks his sister to the back of the trailer, to a safe haven with too-thin walls and a CD player filled with  _Pink Floyd_ at the ready. Jughead deposits his sister on the bed, offers her one of those bright cherry-flavored fruit snacks she adores and wiggles it in front of her face until she smiles through the tears.

“Thanks, Juggie,” his sister says, voice filled with phlegm and all the emotion a nine year old body can hold.

“I got you,” Jughead replies, and hugs her tight.

 

* * *

 

It’s the one thing he gets from his father, he supposes.

He’ll always protect what’s his, no matter the cost.

 

* * *

 

Jughead manages to pick up some summer work here and there, but nothing permanent. Nothing to really help much beyond an extra twenty bucks toward the electric bill. Nobody wants to hire a preteen and lie about it on their records, except Mr. Andrews maybe, but when Jughead asked Archie’s father had simply given him a knowing look and said, “After you hit your growth spurt, kiddo, come see me.”

He offered to have Jughead and his sister over for dinner, though, so Jughead's not complaining.

 

* * *

 

He stays because leaving  _bothers_ him.

Jughead doesn’t bother explaining, and he doesn’t know if he could explain if he tried. The reasons don’t much matter anyway because nobody asks, not a single person  _asks_ , but there’s something in his father’s eyes, something that looks a little like surprise and a lot like respect when Jughead announces, loud and clear, that he’s staying in Riverdale.

It’s not what his father was expecting, Jughead knows. Their family is gone, packed away in an ugly tan suburban some two hours away, and it seems the better option. It has mom, it has Jellybean, it has grandparents and safe havens and new starts.

It also has giving up.

Jughead’s a realist, he knows the situation in front of him. He realizes his dad has a problem, and the drinking may not stop. He knows mom had her reasons, and Jellybean is too small to go on like this. Jughead  _knows_ the reasons just fine, but that doesn’t mean he  _likes_ them.

Just like he’s mad at his father, but he’s not giving up.

Jughead doesn’t know if his presence in this ghost town will make much of a difference. Just like he doesn’t know if moving out will be enough to spur his father into something closer resembling sobriety. But he does know that if he does nothing, if everyone just  _leaves_ , then FP Jones will most certainly become little more than the thug currently playing make-believe in his stead. He knows the sentence will be permanent, rather than temporary.

And if there’s a chance in hell that Jughead can rewrite the ending to his father’s tale, then he will.

He  _will_.

 

* * *

 

Since Jellybean left he has more layers than ever, more jackets and hoodies and flannels than he knows what to do with, since she’s no longer here to borrow or otherwise steal his clothing. He cycles through what remains of their once-shared closet one piece at a time, systematic and precise, her lilac deodorant clinging to the fabric before his own more masculine scent drowns hers out bit by bit. One month later he finally makes it to the laundry mat on Wednesday—cheap wash night—when it only costs one dollar per load.

Jughead hesitates before pressing the final quarter into the slot machine, because the minute that coin drops he loses the last remnant he has of Jellybean that isn’t the photograph stuck in his back pocket. He doesn't want to feel this way, doesn't want to feel broken and empty, staring at a slot machine like it's the tether to everything that was once normal in his life, but maybe he never knew the definition of the word. Maybe sorrow was destined to follow him around wherever he went, like his mother's cigarettes and his father's booze. Maybe teenage angst is his own personal addiction, his one and only vice.

Jughead pushes in the final coin with more force than necessary, the machine quivering back and forth before righting itself, its dirty chrome exterior as sturdy and soulless as ever. Jughead glares and wipes his nose on his sleeve, wary of the other patrons.

Change, he thinks, is a real bitch.

 

* * *

 

His reputation as a foodie gets a bit out of control.

Jughead doesn't know how or when it started, and he doesn't much care. It frustrates him at first, the presumption that he's little more than a stereotypical boy with a growth spurt when none of them even  _know_ , but after the second week Jughead just shrugs his shoulders and owns it because why not. It's easier to let the world believe whatever they want to believe; they're going to say or do whatever they want anyway, so what's the point in fighting over something as simple as whether Jughead Jones enjoys a double cheeseburger at Pop's.

Like anyone is going to say no to that.

Archie grins when they order a double basket of curly fries late one Friday evening, his smile a special kind of silly that can only mean he's about to say something incredibly cheesy that he thinks is hilarious.

“So is it true you love burgers more than girls, Juggie?”

Jughead rolls his eyes. He should have seen that one coming.

“Sure,” he shrugs.

“Really?” Archie's gaze follows his stream of consciousness currently residing on the top-left corner of the ceiling. “Even over Cheryl? Or Ethel? I've seen the way she looks at you.”

Jughead doesn't even look up. “Gross, dude.”

Archie laughs and swirls a curly fry around his finger, contemplative. “Maybe. Betty invited me to go to the winter formal as friends, but I might ask one of the upperclassman instead.”

“Too low for us boring freshman, Archie?” Jughead points an accusatory fork his direction.

“What, no!” Archie exclaims with more force than necessary. “Just…thought it might be nice, you know, to see other girls.”

“Uh-huh,” Jughead nods once like he gets it, though he doesn’t get it at all.

“Maybe you could go,” Archie suggests, his voice purposefully light. It sounds just like the voice that school administration uses when they’re digging for information, when they’re worried but don’t want to express their concern outright. It’s a universal  _tone_ , Jughead thinks, a way of speaking that spells not-so-hidden subtext, but doesn’t plainly acknowledge the real message, either. It’s Archie’s way of nudging Jughead in a more social, more stereotypical teenage direction, a suggestion Jughead has heard a thousand different times, in a thousand different ways.

It’s neither warranted nor welcomed.

Jughead tells himself it’s a bad idea, that no one would want him there anyway, that it’s not something he really wants. He’s never fit in much of anywhere, and one school dance isn’t going to change that or turn his life around, for better or worse. There’s no harm, but there’s no great gain either, and Jughead just can’t get past that part of himself that feels rooted to what’s familiar, to that aloof lonerism that’s suited him well the past six months. Even if it means driving a wedge between Jughead and the best friend sitting across from him, even if Archie is slowly becoming someone different, a person Jughead doesn’t recognize or relate to, Jughead tells himself it’s better this way. It’s better than becoming someone he’s not, or faking it until he’s miserable for a whole new plethora of reasons, and all of them avoidable.

But it doesn’t change the fact. Sometimes, looking at Archie’s carefree nonchalance, his smile so bright and naturally charming it sucks in anyone within its orbit, it’s easy for Jughead to feel like his life is less than. It’s easy to compare and contrast, to draw lines in the proverbial sand. It’s easy to feel that loathsome jealousy clawing its way under his skin, that defensiveness because Archie is  _his friend_ , the one good thing Jughead has going, and he can’t even make himself meet that same friend halfway for one goddamn dance.

Jughead sighs.

“Maybe we could take a roadtrip this summer instead.”

Archie’s head snaps back up, a glimmer of hope in those expressive eyes. “Yeah?”

Jughead is trying to meet Archie halfway, but he can’t even look his best friend in the eye right now. He picks at what remains of the fries, feeling sheepish. “Yeah.”

“Okay!” Archie nudges his arm, offers an all too tempting curly fry with a flick of his wrist. Jughead accepts the olive branch for what it is, giving Archie his signature side-eye look in the process.

“One condition, though.”

Jughead smirks. Archie raises an eyebrow.

“I pick the soundtrack.”

 

* * *

 

It falls apart, because of course it does. History repeats itself, doesn’t it? This is what Jughead gets for trying, isn’t it?

Jughead watches the drive-in projector take its last and final spin, and like the coin machine at the laundry mat, he can feel his life changing once again.

It should hurt less, he thinks, the second time around, but it doesn't.

It really, really doesn't.

 

* * *

 

It takes pretty much the whole of high school, but eventually Jughead figures it out: he’s nothing like Archie Andrews.

He would have liked to have been, maybe. Once upon a time Archie Andrews was someone he looked up to, respected, even envied just a little. Archie with his white picket fence and his perfect girl next door. Archie with his good grades and his charming attitude. Archie with his natural affinity for wholesome goodness. Archie with his stable father, Archie who would never skip a meal.

Jughead doesn’t know what, exactly, sparks the thought. All he knows for certain is that one perfectly ordinary Saturday afternoon Jughead catches himself staring at Archie out the corner of his eye. Something about watching the simple but vehement way Archie throws a fit over whatever video game just crashed in the middle of his high-score makes Jughead realizes what a divisive line there is between the two boys sprawled on the floor. He doesn't have much time to ponder though, because in the next moment Betty is walking into the room with a fresh plate of baked cookies like the heavenly girl she is. It's like something out of a dream, a picture-perfect moment Jughead is tainting with his very existence. Archie beams at Betty like she just saved the whole world and for a moment, Jughead thinks he gets it. For a moment, Jughead is sick to his stomach because the image in front of him is too bright, too perfect. Realization has always been a son of a bitch, and today is no different:

He will never get to have this.

Jughead accepts a double chocolate chip cookie when Betty offers, because despite his inner turmoil he’s still a growing boy and he spent his last dollar calling Jellybean last week. He takes it because Betty’s cooking is amazing—always has been—and he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He takes it because this is all Jughead Jones is reduced to: a lesser than version of Archie Andrews, a scavenger with no home and a devil-may-care attitude.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, even though he doesn’t think she’s listening.

“You’re welcome,” Betty smiles before turning on her heel, skirt sashaying around her knees.

Jughead is so wrapped up in his own self-pity he almost doesn’t catch Betty’s smile dim when she swivels on her feet, almost misses the tear streaming down her cheek when she thinks no one’s looking. It’s not the kind of thing others would look for, not the type of reaction one might expect from pitch perfect Betty Cooper, but it’s there, in plain sight, if one has the eyes to look.

It’s the first time Betty Cooper surprises him.

Little does he know it won’t be the last.

 

* * *

 

It takes Jughead half of high school to figure it out, but when he does, the revelation turns his world upside-down: Betty Cooper isn’t so unfamiliar after all, and his actual tale is divided into two distinct parts.

There’s before Betty, and there’s after.

 

* * *

 

That’s the funny thing about change. It doesn’t always happen all at once. Sometimes the transition is already in motion before your mind can recognize the action. Sometimes it’s only in retrospect, looking at the sum of its parts, that realization dawns. Sometimes it’s not time that changes you, but you that changes over time.

Sometimes, the story doesn’t end when you expect it to.

 

* * *

 

 

** Now **

 

 

There’s one thing Jughead Jones and Betty Cooper have had in common from the very beginning: unrequited love.

 Hell, Jughead’s been feeding unrequited feelings for the latter half of his life, if he’s honest. With his family, with Archie, with anyone in this town that shows him half an ounce of something other than sympathy, or anger, or regret.

It’s not that he’s desperate, or anything. God knows Jughead Jones doesn’t need anything or anyone, a point he sets out to prove without consciously trying, but is etched into his veins like ice: a cold, constant reminder of exactly who and what he is, a reminder that no matter how much he tells himself otherwise, he will always be at the whims and wishes of other people’s opinions. That, like everyone else in the entire universe, he still  _cares_.

He’s not special, in that respect.

Which is why it’s hard to admit, harder than he ever would have imagined, that the same Jughead Jones that Riverdale always sees: the sullen loner weirdo of the town, the height of teenage angst, is also the same scared, lonely little boy who might as well be holding up a neon sign that says  _talk to me, I need somebody to love_.

It’s the same sign he’s seen other people holding for decades. The same sign he’s seen time and time again at the drive in, on the projector screen. The same sign he’s seen reflected in Betty Cooper’s eyes, when she gazes out the window at her neighbor, the golden boy next door, Jughead’s ex-maybe-best-friend, the boy who has the world wrapped around his finger, who want for nothing but is never satiated, never satisfied.

That metaphorical neon sign is the reason Jughead can’t believe the perfect girl next door would feel anything remotely close to affection for him. A distant sort of connection, yes, a certain comfort that small town familiarity brings, but nothing deep, nothing personal. Nothing so burning that could be described as  _want_  or  _need_. Jughead is an expert at unrequited feelings, after all. He’s something of an authority on feeling touch-starved and empty, yearning for a family, a home, a safe place with that special someone at his back to say good morning to every sunrise. Stupid, mundane things everyone else takes for granted but are a delicacy, a pipe dream in Jughead’s reality.

Now, Jughead’s a smart kid. He’s adept at reading people, situations. More adept than he wishes he were, some days, but it’s not a thing he can switch off like electricity. No, the switch is always on, crackling and fizzling in his brain like radio waves—a spark when a connection is made, a mystery solved, a motive uncovered.

Jughead never sees any of those signs with Betty Cooper. He never notices any hint of unrequited affection on her end, and he knows he would have. He would have spotted it in an instant, from a mile away, especially if it was directed at him. Not because he’s desperate, mind. Just observant. Maybe it’s personal experience, maybe it’s his own unique brain frequency but either way, there’s nothing to pick up on, there’s no mystery to puzzle and solve.

They’re both nursing a unique blend of Archie Andrews rejection, his first and hers last, and it’s a tenuous form of connection, to be sure. She’s a loyal sort, that’s fairly obvious from the outset, and maybe that’s the reason why Jughead picks her to include on his very short list of  _people_. People he trusts to share things with, to open up to, however slight and however small. People to steal chips from, to sit next to during lunches, to climb ladders and visit at homes. Betty never asks, never pushes, never cancels, and maybe that’s why the Archie pedestal from Jughead’s memory becomes a hazy outline of blonde curls instead. Not all at once, but over time the perfect image of the girl next door, the girl destined to be with the singular Archie Andrews chooses Jughead’s side instead and it’s nothing more than a distraction, probably, an easy way out, a relief from the near-constant reminder she’s yet nursing a broken heart but Jughead welcomes it anyway because he gets that. He gets escaping the same way he gets her eyes fluttering closed when she’s overwhelmed and frustrated, a brief, three second calming technique so her blood doesn’t boil. It’s the first time Jughead sees beneath the Betty Cooper façade, but to his surprise it’s not the last, either.

Which is why he never sees it coming.

He’s so caught up in the details, in the clues, so accustomed to being on the outside looking in, segregated by stereotypes and clichés, by rumors and plane glass windows that he doesn’t pick up on the change at all. He knows himself, of course, has enough self-awareness to know he’s in too deep, this time. Knows it’s dangerous to allow her more trust than his own tumultuous rekindling with Archie, but Jughead’s nothing if not a coward so he doesn’t back down. It’s sheer stubbornness, maybe, or sheer stupidity, that he welcomes her presence again and again and  _again_. He doesn’t turn her away, but neither does he outright acknowledge the flutter in his chest when Betty agrees with him, seeks him out, calls him first, spills her secrets. It shouldn’t be him, he knows, but he revels in it just the same: the more he uncovers about Betty Cooper the more he craves, a never ending cycle as dangerous as any murder mystery and just as perplexing.

And the thing is, he would notice. He would catch wind of it the instant it appeared, if it appeared at all, and it doesn’t. Betty never looks at him the way she once looked at Archie, never pines or lingers or otherwise hints at anything other than her naturally sugar sweet self. Jughead is something of an amateur sleuth, see, and also an expert at unrequited affection, so he’d know. He would most certainly know.

_There’s no story here_ , Jughead thinks, and he isn’t disappointed, not at all. He stares at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen, watches the little black bar stare back at him, the devoid white backdrop searing into his brain and his mood turns wistful. Somewhere in the deep recess of his mind Jughead wishes he could write a different tale, a happy ending. Wishes he had a tale to tell at all, in fact, or at least one worth listening to. The thought lasts but a moment, a blink of an eye and it’s gone and it’s just as well.  _Leave the dreaming to Archie and his song-writing,_ he tells himself,  _your head doesn’t belong in the clouds._

Jughead shuts the screen, closes his eyes, and takes a sip of lukewarm coffee to re-orient himself.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it’s always been there.

As loathe as he is to admit it, Jughead can’t deny he’s always…noticed Betty in some respect. She’s the most sincere person he knows, and there are times happiness exudes out of her so fiercely it’s both a force to be reckoned with and a blessed sign of hope in a town that’s otherwise gone dark.

He wants to help with Polly because he knows. He knows what it’s like to lose a sister, to think about her every day. He knows how empty and bereft it leaves you, when half your family’s gone away. It’s why he drives out of his way some thirty miles when he can barely afford the gas. It’s why he offers his shoulder to cry on, despite the cliché. It’s why he circles an arm around her back in the student lounge, in plain sight.

He’s never expecting anything in return, but Betty keeps smiling his direction, keeps welcoming his advances, keeps hold of his hand long after his grip turns limp. Her smile is just as bright as he remembers from his youth, but to have it directed toward him,  _at him_ , is another thing entirely, and more than once Jughead has to turn away for fear of blushing—or worse, talking.

He wants to tell her so many things, things he can barely put into words, things he’s never told anyone, maybe ever, and that right there is exactly why he admires her—

—and is scared of her.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t really think it through until he’s standing alone in Betty Cooper’s too-pink bedroom.

He’s planned this moment, of course. He arranged the circumstance in his mind, choreographed the words and phrases, the manners and actions. He’s thought it through just fine, but there’s one thing he distinctly did  _not_ account for, and that’s nerves.

It starts off well enough. Betty talks about her mother, about Polly, about the recent roadtrip and the recent rain-covered discovery on Highway 9. She talks about the possibility of being crazy, and maybe that’s the moment Jughead’s carefully choreographed charade falls flat, when all of his careful musing goes out the window and he improvises, grabbing her arm and caressing her face on impulse.

“Hey,” he says, soft in a way he hasn’t been in years. “We’re all crazy.”

Betty sighs and collapses into his arms. It’s a symbol of trust, Jughead knows it is, but his heartbeat ignores the logic and picks up in speed anyway, as though he needs a physical reminder of what comes next, a reminder of  _why he is here_.

“Also,” he starts, and finds he doesn’t know how to finish. He knows how that sentence ends, he can hear it playing in his mind on repeat, but when it comes to speaking, when it comes to that kind of forthright honesty Archie has in spades, Jughead feels himself falling short.

Jughead Jones is the master of secrets, most of which are his own by design.

“What?” Betty asks, like nothing is amiss, because for her, nothing is. Because Jughead is there to comfort, to lean on, not spew heartfelt nothings. Not to tell her how important, how special and unique—how far she is from being anything like  _anyone_ , let alone Alice Cooper.

He can’t even look her in the eye, he can barely concentrate on the carefully rehearsed speech he fully intended to give not five minutes earlier. Everything seems so much easier from the outside looking in, and Jughead has never done this before, with anyone. Jughead doesn’t have girlfriends or crushes, he doesn’t admit feelings or nerves. Jughead shirks these inane niceties for the mundane pastimes they are; most emotional connections are over as quick as they start, and Jughead  _knows_ , it’s just that—

—Betty’s different.

She’s like Archie in that she’s someone Jughead admires, even respects. Except there’s none of that absurd jealousy attached, nothing but swelling affection when Jughead Jones looks at Betty Cooper and sees her for all she is. Nothing but a pure sort of adoration for her optimism and her sheer resilience to keep going, always. She is everything Jughead wishes he could be, even as he enjoys his odd temperament for the strange concoction that it is. His eclectic taste is a byproduct of his upbringing, maybe, just as Betty’s distinctive personality is a byproduct of hers, but looking at her, watching that genuine authenticity—raw and up close—Jughead discovers that the shitty world you’re born into isn’t always the terrible cage he once perceived it to be. Looking at Betty, Jughead thinks, sometimes good things are born out of bad circumstances.

Like standing in her bedroom, after following a murder lead.

Like finding someone, after someone else left.

Like taking a leap, and wanting to jump.

“What?” Betty repeats, trying to catch his eyeline. Except for the first time in his life, Jughead doesn’t have the words to elaborate, so he falls back on the gut instinct that served him so well all these years instead. He resorts to sheer impulse to tell her  _something_ , since he’s already come this far.

Jughead looks into her eyes, watches a question form in the shrug of her shoulder and the furrow of her brow, but there’s no malice, no impatience. Just Betty Cooper in her comfy blue blouse, with her crystal blue eyes and her bouncy blonde hair, staring at a boy she smiled and welcomed inside, ushering him into her bedroom and if he’s lucky, her heart.

He kisses her.

He kisses her and it’s the first of so many things, in so many ways. Things Jughead didn’t know he was allowed to have, let alone want. He kisses her and she keeps up, she always _keeps up_ , her hands on his elbows and her mouth on his lips. He kisses her and she sighs, happy and sweet and warm, that small corner of her mouth turning upward in a smile. He kisses her and she doesn’t turn back, she doesn’t walk away.

Jughead doesn’t know how he’s the type of person Betty Cooper wants, just that he, somehow, is.

He doesn’t know how he went from the loner archetype to someone with feeling and shape, with depth and nerves. He doesn’t know how to describe the Betty Cooper effect, doesn’t know how to express how vital it feels, how all important. He doesn’t know how to convey how  _much_ it means that she is the first person who’s seen him, who’s sought him out for no other reason than sheer interest in his person.

Betty is living proof that people are not all that they seem.

Little did Jughead know the revelation would change him, too.

 

* * *

 

She surprises him.

Jughead surprises himself by offering, by knocking his own walls down in a way he hasn’t done with anyone except Jellybean. He surprises himself by stepping forward, leaning in, caressing her face and later her mouth. He surprises himself by falling headfirst into a stereotype he swore he’d never get to touch, let alone taste.

Betty surprises him by accepting every jagged, broken piece.

 

* * *

 

There lies the difference between Archie and Betty. Betty doesn’t let go.

She grabs his hand and she  _runs_.

 

* * *

 

Sheriff Keller slides the school record across the table with a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist and just like that all of Jughead’s secrets come to life. He proceeds to tell Jughead about himself in that arbitrary way officers do, as though telling you about yourself will lessen the blow, or make you feel inclined to offer information, or maybe just argue until you tip your own hand in their favor.

Jughead does neither of these things.

He's been staring at sheets of paper with facts on them for years. Some professional, some personal, some a mix in between. He's heard and seen these types of stories a hundred times, from his living room to the silver screen, but even so he never expected his own tale to be summed up by these same parts. Jughead looks down at the folder with  _Forsythe Jones III_  at the top in bold print and realizes how pathetic it is, to be nothing more than a few not-so-random statistics on file paper.

_We are not our families_ , he'd told Betty.

Oh, how he wishes he had been right.

 

* * *

 

Betty holds his face in her soft palms. Her fingers are cold, her eyes warm. She looks into his eyes with all the courage a sixteen year old body can hold and says the three words Jughead has always wanted to hear, but never expected to receive. It’s a soft thing, barely more than a whisper, but its meaning is palpable in the florescent yellow light of the streetlamp.

“I believe  _you_ , Jughead.”

And Jughead, he holds her right back, kisses her because he can’t contain his affection any longer. Because if he doesn’t he might say something else instead, something about promises and being someone he always hoped he could be but never believed he had the capability until her. Jughead looks at Betty and believes, for the first time since middle school, that it might be possible. He kisses her, and it’s a promise seared between lips.

It feels a little like it did at the start, a little like breaking, but a little like something else, too. Something Jughead has felt all this time, but never really counted on. Something he dreamt, but never felt, like a shadow he could see but not chase. Jughead looks at Betty and sees  _hope._ He sees a future, he sees the possibility of more at his fingertips. It’s been in front of him this whole time, he realizes, and he was lucky enough to turn his head as she walked on by.

“Let’s go,” Jughead whispers, and takes her hand. It’s not a new direction, or even a new path, but the destination, the sight Jughead sets for himself is brand new. It’s not someone leaving, but someone staying. It’s not falling apart, but coming together. He kisses the top of Betty’s hand, smiles through the emotion welling in his throat. They walk into the night like that, hand in hand, ready for whatever tomorrow may bring.

 

* * *

 

Jughead always thought his story was about an ending, but the truth is his family’s separation was merely the start of a chapter that had yet to be finished. His real ending has yet to be written and, Jughead finds, it’s exactly the sort of freedom he always craved come true, right there in the midst of something he once assumed was a life sentence.

It’s Betty’s influence on him, maybe, that sparks the thought. It’s her hand he holds over and over, until one day she flips those same palms and shows him what secrets of her own lay hidden underneath.

And Jughead, he does for Betty as she did for him. He kisses her fingers—once, twice, three times—before twining them with his own. He tells her over and over, “we’re all crazy,” with a little smile and offers to be by her side. He holds her close, and this time, he doesn’t let go.

This time, he grabs her hand and he  _runs_.

 

* * *

  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](http://tatooinelukes.tumblr.com/).


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